5. Donations: Receipts from charities you’ve given monies to. When she trips on your massive pile of Mickey Dee bills, take one receipt and tell her you made a contrib-yoosh of $5.62 to the Ronald McDonald House. For the cost of a Big Mac combo, an unfortch kid with a glandular problem (aka, you), was treated to a Big Mac combo.

6. Artwork: Dogs playing poker? The only dog playing poke her will be you.

8. Pets: I watched ‘Sex and the City’ for like 5 minutes one time while I was tossing the pigskin and knocking back Heinies, and the only animal worth the fur on its tail is the rabbit. Also falls under the Electronics category.

9. Food: Michelina’s. We’re talking off-en-tic Eyetallyano. Throw that shit on a plate and she’ll think you’re the president of a bank. And the only thing this bank does, is make deposits.

The Holidays are about to get way fucking better. Next week, Talvid’s fucking masterpiece cinematic debut, “The Jew Who Saved Christmas,” will premiere in this space. Rest assured, it will make Avatar look like throw up.

Pretty much all the time, I’m getting flown to London or Tokyo or Dubai to consult on how to make shit bad-ass. Now, when I fly, I’m first class all the way — better than FC actually. Don’t tell anyone, but there’s a special section in every plane that the cattle in coach, business, and first class don’t even know about. That’s where I sit.

But as anyone who’s seen Up in the Air knows, experienced air travelers like Clooney (gay, beeteedubs), have all sawts of twicks ub da twade. Like, fer instance, the ones below:

1. Always sit next to hottie. The tension is delicious. And if you decide to buy a whole row of seats so you can have some room to stretch out, then make sure some eye candy is sitting across the aisle from you.

2. Don’t settle. The waitresses have like ninety hundred bags of salty sesame treats — they can fucking spare to give you six or seven of those tasty little fuckers.

3. Booze it up.

4. Music is croosh. I bring a boombox and then play fucking sweet mellow jams for the whole plane to groove to — Fyst, Lady Hock, Feenix — primo shit. Trust me, the waitresses like to dance.

5. Mark your territory. I like to bring a little syringe full of piss and then squirt it in the bathroom and on the adjacent seats. Then, friendarinos, human instinct kicks in, and people know whose space is whose.

6. Establish armrest control. When the person next to you sits down, say, “Small talk bullshit blab blab,” then, with panther-like prowess, grab tight hold of their windpipe, pull their face close to yours, and whisper, “My arms get tired from choking choads like you all day — do me a solid and keep your claws off the armrest.” This has never NOT worked for me.

7. Relive your tension before getting on the plane. You know what I mean.

Among other industries, Advertising often looks to Talvid for advice. So here’s an idea Advertising can try out next time it’s working with a fashion company that makes winter coats.

Let’s say the client, or, “account” is Benetton or something. You get them to whip up like 1000 fucking badass winter coats. Really bright, vibrant colors, but with no identifying markers — no logos, no slogans, no “branding.” Then you give those fuckers to homeless people. Hobos are scavengers, and will take that shit for sure.

What happens next? The virus spreads. People will be walking around, going about their business, and see all the hobos wearing these fine, fresh winter coats and be all like, “How’d all these no-hopers get such cool shit? And where can I get one?”

It’s not just normals that’ll notice — journos will too. Who is behind the winter coats? Is it charity? Is it a gang costume? The mystery will deepen. Hysteria will build.

Eventually, somehow, someway, the secret will get out. The fancy clothing company was behind it. Story’s over.

N’uh uh. It’s just beginning. People will think about what’s happened. They’ll be confused. Was it charity? Was it advertising? Then, some hothead will put it together that human beings — and that term is used loosely vis a vis primo facto hobos — were being used as billboards. Other people will pick up on that idea. A debate will ensue. Is it okay to use humans as unwitting advertisements if the product they’re advertising is beneficial to them. Edgy, provocative stuff.

We all know that you’ve often wondered, “How does Talvid do it?” Well, there’s no easy answer to that — it’s a bit like asking how a car drives or a spoon spoons. But in the spirit of giving, here’s a transcription of an excerpt from one of Talvid’s famous brain-storming sessions. No guarantees that this method will work for you, but, as you can see, it’s worked wonders for Talvid.

You’ll prolz wanna take notes:

Talvid1 says:

dude, pump the blog. it’s stagnant as a beehatch.

Talvid2 says:

what’s the traffi today>

Talvid2 says:

Huge as yewszjh

Talvid1 says:

been shit for too damn long

Talvid2 says:

it’s the normal midday lag

Talvid1 says:

if we don’t acknowledge this “midday lag”, doth it not exist?

Talvid2 says:

I tried that tactic with you and it didn’t work

Talvid1 says:

good one shecky

Talvid1 says:

you got something stuck in your teeth, bro

Talvid1 says:

it’s my dick

Talvid2 says:

stop stealing my joke of calling people shecky

Talvid1 says:

which would make it pretty small.

Talvid1 says:

but implies that you suck it, regardless of its tinectitude

Talvid2 says:

you’re such an idiot

Talvid2 says:

how could I be essing your dee at the same time as I’m banging your mom?

When big news happens, you tend to handle it better if you’re sitting down. If not, the blood might retreat from your brain, causing you to faint. But really, to sit or to stand, it’s never your choice. The best you can hope for is to be seated. It’s just safer that way.

I remember things vividly from that night. My family and I were traveling north. It was the Hanukah time of year. Happiness and glee are supposed to be the norm. Yet, outside it was cold and dark. In retrospect, I should have taken that as a kind of foreshadowing. To make matters worse, there was a driving rain coating our vehicle, keeping it from securely planting its four wheels on the slick pavement. The occupants in the front seat were silent. Almost in a premonitory way. Then. Then the unspeakable happened. Looking back on it, I’m certain that the seatbelt around my shoulder kept me from reaching out in horror and smashing my face through the passenger window. When something like this happens, preparation is the last thing on your mind. We reached the intersection. The traffic light an ominous red. And that’s when it happened. One of the “St. Louis” chicken wing franchises had changed its name to “Bistro”. Honestly, what the fuck is that shit.

No one ever told me how to handle bad news.

Hot damn could I go for a cooch stogie right about now. Get Brofi Annan on the horn(y).